II. The Inside Track

Self

my parents gave me a crystal vaseI filled it with gladiolasand baby’s-breaththen placed it on the mantlewhere it was knockedover by the catand shattered

it is my job to pick up the pieces

it is my role to be supportiveeven through such a loss

each small fragment is a prismreflecting the incandescent lightinto countless colorsthat refract on the edges

I pick up one of the larger pieces,a somewhat oval shaped fragmentand stare at its surfaceit is like a single lifeor one of a multitude of thoughtsthat makes up a human beingI roll it between my thumb and index fingeras if I could memorize its outlineto find the pieces that connect to this oneand rebuild the vasestone by stonebrick by brick

insteadI toss the fragment awayinto the garbage

along with the rest of the piecesuntil only particlesare lefta light dusting of crystalcoating the ceramic floor

but no matter how hard I tryI can’t seem to sweep up all of itand for some time afterwardsa little dust thrives in the corners and the cracksto remind me of what I once had--

my support for othersand my patience

and pretty soonI visit a glimmering showroomto buy another crystal vasea spitting image of the original

I take the vase homeand gingerlyplace it on the same mantleand line it with flowers

the cat continues to roam the houseenjoying its dominion over the plantsand flowers in the housebiting and chewingwhatever it sees fit